


Reclamation

by quamquam20



Series: However Partial [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Rey is feral, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, dry humping is the leading cause of redemption in Supreme Leaders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24006748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quamquam20/pseuds/quamquam20
Summary: Sequel toHowever PartialRey and Kylo are more determined than ever to not let a moment (or two) of weakness get in the way of their respective missions. But they're still tempted by what happens when they stop fighting.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: However Partial [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715140
Comments: 51
Kudos: 229
Collections: Reylo Hidden Gems





	Reclamation

* * *

Rey is a disorganized jumble the next few days. There's a perimeter breach and she's useless. She leaves her weapons in the bunkroom and she can't tell which direction the alert is coming from, so she just stands there while people rush past.

When she's meditating, she can't focus.

_Everybody knows._

How could they? They just think she's overworked and worried. But her mind won't go anywhere in idle moments but that nighttime clearing and the way she'd strained her ears to hear him come, and the thought of how it must have smeared around and soaked into his pants as he walked back to his ship alone in the dark. What had she started? He couldn't even look at her afterward.

If _that's_ what has been hiding between them the whole time, if that's how easy it is for her to forget everything and tip over into oblivion with him...

She can never see him again.

It hurts so much more than it did before. And it shouldn't. It should be a relief.

* * *

He's destroyed. Another dimly-lit meeting and he's bouncing his leg under the table, rapping his thumbs on the arms of the chair. Her hair was so soft. Was it always like that or had she done something to it?

_No, why would she do something to it?_

It's not like they were on a date.

“Supreme Leader.” Hux's nasal drawl cuts through anything sexy. Always. He's so opportunistic, and Kylo wants to carve him up.

“General,” he acknowledges dryly.

The table is ringed with expectant faces. They were briefing him on the production schedule for a prototype TIE/wi modified interceptor, and the pause can only mean they need his approval for something.

“Permission granted,” he says and he knows it was the right thing to say because Hux can't conceal his disappointment.

The meeting continues on—a treasury update, and Kylo's far away again.

He kissed her. Why did he do that? It's the worst part. Everything else she might pin on him being turned on, and can write off as a one-time lapse of judgment. Simple human nature. They've been focused on each other for months and frustration builds up and in the heat of the moment, they both got off.

_That part sounds bad, too, actually._

But then, when it was over and it _had_ to be out of his system, he kissed her. He tasted her mouth. The last shred of dignity in it, the only refuge for his pride, is that he was rough. It wasn't a slow, romantic thing. But still. He kissed the scavenger after he'd come and there was no need for it at all.

And it's terrible and ruinous, but he wants to do it again. To be on top of her and let their lips and tongues move in cushioned, careful ways. She tasted more delicate than he'd imagined—less of a loud thunderstorm and more of a drenching but passing shower, all fresh rain and the wisp of a campfire that had gone out.

Why is he doing this to himself? Why analyze and memorize the exact shape of her lips between his, and how her tongue shifts and what her precise flavor is?

Because it won't happen again. Never again.

There is a war; she is an enemy combatant, and he cannot afford to spend any more time feeling this way.

The next time Hux looks over to give him a sneering, sarcastic reminder to pay attention, Kylo Ren is waiting with a glare that leaves the words behind the general's teeth.

* * *

His name catches in Rey's throat as soon as their eyes meet; him on the gnarled wreckage of the TIE's wing. Her, too close to get away. There's the fastest easing in his posture before he locks it and stamps it out and swings the skittering red blade of his lightsaber around to point it at her.

Rey powers down her lightsaber. He freezes, like he did to her months and months ago deep in the trees outside of Maz's castle but Rey isn't doing anything to him. His ash-smeared arms are lifted over his head, blade poised to slice down through her and she gets it. Finally, at the end, there's the clarity. So, _so_ sick of fighting. Tired of dodging and maneuvering, of pushing through and slashing.

She's staring at him and it's so much like Snoke's throne room—him above her and her looking up and hoping. Sick of fighting but never done hoping. And the same question: is he in there, still? At this moment? Who is steering him?

“Ben.”

Then, it's not like the throne room at all because he's the Supreme Leader now, and he can let his expression give it all away. The softness that starts in his eyes leaks out over his face and opens his mouth the tiniest bit before it spreads to his hands. She knows when it gets to his fingertips because the blade retracts and his arms drop and he lets go. For some reason, that's what tells her it's real—the loud clunk of a black hilt hitting the smoldering scraps of his ship.

Rey steps in close and the zapping shock of X-wing fire and the whining scream of TIE fighters overhead can't drown out the pounding of her heart. He's tired of it too.

More than that: he's climbing down. Ducking his head and stepping in and—

They're kissing. Hot and adrenaline-shivering, and she could swear he's smiling into it. No time. Not here. It's so dangerous and the only goal Rey has now—the beating thing at the end of the tunnel she's always been in—is to keep him alive and with her. Then she's grabbing his hand and he must have had a blaster hidden on him somewhere the whole time. He's incredible with it, and they're running hard, feet slamming into the ground towards safety. Rey wonders if it looks like she captured him, but she's flinging _everybody_ out of the way and he's still holding her hand.

She's dizzy with new kinds of winning.

* * *

They want to kill him.

He gets it. He really does. Two people have to hold Poe back. Three for FN-2—

 _No, that's not it anymore._ Traitor, just like him. Finn.

Rey's not there and he feels like he's in a rancor pit without her.

Senator—Princess—General—

_Mom._

—is talking and he tries to listen to what she's saying but his ears are ringing. He knows that she lays a hand protectively on his arm and he's a kid again, lip split from an unfair fight and Leia never asks what he did to deserve it. She's only ready to unleash hell on whoever did it.

The door slides open and Rey walks in, and the tiny smile she gives him actually, impossibly, makes it worth it.

* * *

Even hunched over, he's too big.

They're sitting at a small table together and Rey is trying so hard to keep her chin lifted in the torrents of whispers and hissing words and angry gesticulating as the news spreads. She takes another sip of her water and stays with him.

“You don't have to sit with me,” he says. “I don't even think this is helping.”

“Master—” Rey catches it. _Your mother?_ “General Organa says it's the best way to make it normal.” Somebody in the mess hall makes a sloppy, mocking kissing sound and there's more than one howling laugh in response, off to her left. “And I like spending time with you.”

The declaration is ruined a little by the way her cheeks are blazing but it's true and then he lifts his eyes to hers.

“Thank you.”

She wants to kiss him again, right here. To tell them that it wasn't a fickle change of heart or a giving up. It was an unshedding of rage and she's so proud of it, and they're not helping anything. To tell them that she has been alone in every crowd until now.

Instead, she rests her hand on the rough wooden table top and carefully inches it over to his, stopping when the sides of their pinkies touch. She feels gratitude surge through their bond.

* * *

Word got out too fast with the higher-ups that he ran off with the scavenger, taking down any First Order troops that pointed a weapon at them, so there's no option of espionage or a gradual undermining. Ben is silent at Resistance debriefings, standing in the back of the room with his arms crossed over his broad chest, leaning against the door frame so he can be the first one out of the packed room when it's over. In smaller planning meetings he's more open, offering information readily.

They train together. No other weapons yet—only the Force. She's tentative until she learns that he moves differently now—less explosive but with that same unpredictable, watchful precision that takes all of her focus to anticipate and counter.

Since his defection, the embedded mole within the First Order has been strangely silent and there are rumors within the ranks that it was him all along. It wasn't, but it's convenient gossip so there's no correction made. Meanwhile, the First Order officially insists that Kylo Ren fell in battle, which, in a way, is true. It was Ben's idea to let them recover his lightsaber from the mangled TIE, knowing that they would trip over themselves to hold a fake funeral for a leader they couldn't wait to turn against. They should know better, really, and many of them do.

If there's no body, he's not dead. Not really. But they'll all know that soon enough.

He's gone for a few days. When he returns, he has an elegant copper and silver lightsaber that Rey doesn't recognize clipped to his belt.

* * *

Rey brings foods when she goes into Ben's room at night to visit. She's got no idea how else to do it. It gives her a flimsy excuse to be there, and gives her hands things to do while they talk. When there's a lull in the conversation that makes them glance around the room for the next topic, she has something to cram into her mouth.

Ben has his own quarters in the old moss-covered base, and people give all kinds of reasons for it but, with the exceptions of Leia, Chewie, and Rey, nobody that wants to be alone in a room with him for any amount of time should be. Having private, secured quarters is really the only way he'll be safe while he sleeps. The last thing he needs is to wake up to a couple of fuming Resistance soldiers looming over him.

Rey's glad for the seclusion when they talk. There's an intimacy about it that's familiar. They avoid discussing the war.

Sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, she is thinking about how the loose shirts Ben has been wearing make her want to slip her hand underneath and touch him. It's a lot and things are complicated, but she imagines what he must feel like.

“So, which bed is more comfortable?” Rey asks jokingly after she gulps down a mouthful of fruit.

Next to him, Ben bounces his fingers on the dense, standard-issue canvas pads that serve as a mattress.

“Whichever one you get into.” It _should_ sound cocky, but it's far too earnest.

Rey takes a drink from her canteen to buy herself some time. She's just trying to keep the conversation going so they don't stare at each other for too long, but bringing up beds was a tactical error on her part. For some reason, this feels infinitely more taboo than anything she did before. Maybe it's because there's nothing stopping her, no real reason she can't return to the bunkroom to collect her blanket and pillow, and spend every night with him. People would talk, of course, but they do that already.

“How about this one?” He slides over to give her room to sit.

Pooling warmth before she can even get over to him. They should be friends first, she reasons. She can just sit on his bed like a friend and chat. They should build up to this again, over time, while he regains his footing. But sitting down next to him, his chest is already rising and falling faster at her closeness. And how anybody could expect her to keep her body to herself when Ben Solo looks like _that_ , she doesn't know. He's holding back, too, like he wants to ask something but is too scared of the answer.

So she does it.

“Ben, I—” It's so difficult to blink with him searching her face like that.

She cuts herself off _,_ her mouth on his. When his hands sweep over her, her mind goes blank and only partially flickers back on, hot-wired or short-circuited. Doesn't know. The buttoned-up, strapped in tension of his body that she's gotten used to is gone and Ben is moving heat.

He's something to unwrap in stages just to slow it down, because he's right there. One layer, no hiding and she's so territorial that she has the passing Jakku-deep relief of getting to him before somebody else here can claim and strip him in his room. She doesn't care if somebody had him long before: older and used works just as well. It only matters that when she needs to break him down, _her_ hands are on him.

She is grabbing at the button of his pants and climbing on top of him when he gasp-laughs.

“Rey.” He sits up again, fingers on her waist to still her. His hair is hanging in his face and the way he shoves it back is an impatient habit that does something to her. “People might find out.”

 _Get under me._ She wants to growl it because there is no way she's letting this go just because of that.

“So don't tell them,” she throws back. “Or do. I don't care.”

“They'll hear us.” He's rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip, kissing her neck.

As soon as she imagines that, she wants it—people knowing that she brought him back and gave him those scars and makes him groan in the middle of the night.

“You think we'll be loud?” What a time to whisper, but that's all she can do.

Beneath her, he's grinding while his lips are on her throat. And nods. She can't breathe.

It's the same thing as before—muffled movement and she has to see his skin. If he doesn't want to go in, if he just wants the whetting and rubbing, that's fine. But she needs to see his come this time.

He reaches down between them, fingers tracing through her tight pants, getting oriented. It's enough to make her sob, this teasing that gets a rhythm and more friction and more pressure. Never enough.

_Mine. He's mine._

And that snaps something in her, some greedy, insatiable thing she feels when she looks at him. Like he was made for her; like no matter what they do with their bodies or their thoughts, they'll always be the joining itself. She's pulling at her clothes, trying to get them off.

 _Why are there so many things in the way?_ She wants them gone. Only cares about her pants, really, because that's what's keeping Ben's fingers off of her. He's helping her, stopping to get his own pants open and pulling them down enough to get his cock out before she's straddling him again. Using her body to press the thick shaft of him up against his flat stomach while she grinds. She's so wet that it slicks over him and when she looks down, she can see the head of his cock gliding between her lips, and there's the most filthy, quiet clicking sound while she gets herself off on the underside of his cock. And if she leans forward, just a little—he's hitting her clit and that's perfect, especially when it makes him pull on the thin sheet under him like it's all that can keep him in his body.

“Can I—” He's begging and she wants to tell him that whatever it is, yes.

Rey pulls off of him. He reaches down to touch her. Barely-there friction, but pushing and circling where she has to have it and his fingers are so strong. He's not dipping them into her at all, just rubbing her sensitive lips and trailing up to her clit.

_But get them in me._

She covers his hand with hers, easing his fingers in so her muscles can grip him. Ben swears.

_I love it._

He's speeding up, fingers hooking and pulling and rocking while she feels her body go rigid.

_I love this. I love—_

She looks down at his dark, focused eyes. At his shirt they were too rushed to take off.

And it's there.

“Don't stop,” she pleads, suddenly terrified that he'll take his fingers away from her and let it fizzle out. Instead, it explodes and he's working it out her to keep her coming. She doesn't know if she's being loud because there's nothing. She's tearing his hand away so she can get back on him, her hips jerking out the last hard seconds of her orgasm onto his cock.

_Feel what you did to me._

He's tasting her on his fingers and he is breathing like he's close, but there's some kind of agony in it.

“You don't have to,” he gasps, and it's such a strange thing for him to say, she stops moving. “If you don't want to. I can hold it in.”

Why does he act like she doesn't need him to come? Like she doesn't dream about it?

“Ben. Do it.”

She moves again and when he starts to come, she can't decide if she has to hear it, finally, or if she wants to suck it out of his mouth. The noises he's making could do it for her again; Rey flattens her hand on his heaving chest and can't take her eyes off of him because he's so gone. His whole body is working. Legs moving under her, arms keeping her sliding against him while he looks down at it. And the moaning that he tries to hold back but can't. His come is landing everywhere except on her skin—she catches some and wipes it onto her bare thighs.

_Mine._

* * *

She stays in his bed and bumps into him in her sleep.

Rey wakes up first and stares until he seems real. Counts the freckles on his back, feels him curl into her. She would lay waste to entire worlds for him, would let her life be his only shield. Because she needs the years to stretch out in front of him like an unending sea.

* * *

The Knights of Ren turn out to be far less of an obstacle than he expected and Ben wonders at himself for the disappointment he feels when he and Rey dispatch them without much of a struggle. But in fairness, fighting—together, with her—is like nothing he's ever felt before.

Their bond stops humming and starts pounding, a heartbeat of its own. They no longer look at each other in feverish awe in the middle of a fight at what the Force does when they're beside each other. Amplified, almost terrifying in its unstopability. She's never more beautiful and it's awful because she's killing people, but he gets off to it later. Because she's his. They move as one.

They're the secret weapon, throwing themselves into the middle of the fray, and soon people are learning to scatter when they see those two blue lightsabers ignite on a smoke-filled battlefield. When they're in X-wings, they're untraceable, deadly accurate, and recklessly agile. Rumors in the First Order's ranks are that the new Jedi that fights with the scavenger looks remarkably like Kylo Ren and aren't all the legends about the Jedi surprisingly understated? Because what's happening is indescribable.

The first few times, Leia has such a look of pride and pain on her face when they return that he can't bear it. But he has to. Because they're ending the war that he helped start. He dragged it out this long by staying away and they can never get back what they've all lost. But he and Rey are like a clenched fist that's brought down on the First Order and in a matter of weeks, it's over.

And in the middle of the roar of cheering crowds and fireworks and tearful smiles, he pulls Rey into a kiss. In front of everybody. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him back, their mouths hot.

He would move the galaxy for her. He would level mountains and drain oceans if it made her path easier.

_I would die for her._

But he doesn't have to. No, all he has to do is drop into a seat beside her in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon and smile at her before they take off.

And that's just fine with him.


End file.
